


Ursus' Lotions, Potions, and Puppetry

by Inkonherhands



Category: L'Homme qui rit | The Man Who Laughs - Victor Hugo, The Grinning Man - Philips & Teitler/Grose & Morris & Philips & Teitler/Grose
Genre: Blood and Injury, Body Horror, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, The Grinning Man - Freeform, The Man Who Laughs, puppetry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:28:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25432372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inkonherhands/pseuds/Inkonherhands
Summary: So, the witch and the freak are both part of your fair?(A prologue to the events of The Grinning Man)
Relationships: Grinpayne/Dea
Comments: 30
Kudos: 35





	1. The Heart Of The Motherless Child

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Grinpayne is an angsty teen and tries some mindfulness à la Dea

_Grinpayne raises a hand to his eyes, squinting. He is 14 years old, partway through a growth spurt that will eventually leave him a few inches taller than Ursus and at least a foot taller than Dea, and he has turned from their cart to find himself unexpectedly dazzled by the light of the setting sun. It’s winter, but it’s mild for the season, and the evening is crisp and clear._

_He turns away from the dying light and stands back to review his work. He’d spent the whole morning painting the side of the cart, covering the faded and peeling white letters that had previously read ‘Ursus: Druggist and Potion Maker’. Then, when the paint had dried, Ursus had helped him map out the new lettering, making sure the words all fit evenly with nothing too bunched up or too spread out. Finally, while Ursus and Dea made dinner together, Grinpayne had painstakingly painted the new words on in white, his nose inches from the edge of the cart and his brow furrowed in concentration, his brushstrokes slow but smooth and even._

_“Excuse me, master painter!”, an overly pompous voice calls, breaking the silence. “I was looking for my son but the only person around seems to be you! You haven’t seen him have you?”_

_Grinpayne rolls his eyes. “Very funny, Father”, he drawls, as Ursus slings an arm over his shoulders and ruffles his hair affectionately. The two stand and look at the cart for a moment in silence, the weak sunlight warming the back of their necks._

_“I mean it, lad. You’ve done a brilliant job.” Ursus says softly, reverting to his usual accent and giving Grinpayne a one-armed squeeze. Behind his bandages, Grinpayne allows himself a small, private smile. He’s pretty proud of himself, too._

_“Is it finished?!” An excitable voice cuts through the air, and Ursus and Grinpayne turn from the cart to see Dea, one hand on Mojo’s shoulder, skipping towards them around the side of the cart. Earlier that afternoon Grinpayne had made her a daisy-chain crown, and it’s still nestled wonkily atop her head, the green stems and purple-edged petals bright against the white of her hair. Ursus grins._

_“It’s finished, child. Grinpayne is quite the artist.” Grinpayne shuffles out from under Ursus’ arm, embarrassed, and wanders over to Dea, who is clutching two small wooden figures in her hand._

_“How are the puppets, Dea?”_

_“All done! ” She grins toothily, thrusting them out in front of her. “Did I do it right?”_

_Grinpayne takes one of the puppets from her, turning it over in his hands, familiar as his own bandages. After all, he’d spent hours studying one puppet in order to make the other, crafting his own puppet by firelight every night for weeks so that Dea would have a handsome prince to marry the beautiful princess Ursus had given her as a child. They’re delicate, intricate things, but lately they’d been showing their age; the princess’s dress wearing through and the prince swaddled in the only material that Grinpayne had had available to him at the time, a ratty old cravat of Ursus’. Now, though, they are reborn, clothed in swathes of silk that shine and shimmer in the light, their hems and seams stitched in neat, straight lines._

_“They’re perfect, Dea, truly” Grinpayne smiles, reaching for Dea’s hand and pressing the puppets back into her palm with a gentle squeeze. She grins._

_“Can I see?” Ursus asks, sauntering up behind Grinpayne, but quick as a flash Dea hides the puppets behind her back, shaking her head emphatically._

_“Nope! You have to wait for the performance!”_

_Ursus groans dramatically. A bit_ too _dramatically. “But Grinpayne let me see what he’d done!”_

_“It’s the entire cart, Father, I couldn’t exactly hide it from you” Grinpayne points out, and Ursus splutters in mock indignation._

_“Sorry!” Dea says sweetly, reaching for Grinpayne’s hand and dragging him behind the cart to get ready. “Those are the rules! Now announce us, you have to announce us!”_ _It takes a few minutes, but soon they're ready to perform, and Ursus strides out in front of the cart._

_“Ladies and Gentlemen and Wolves!” He bellows, sweeping his arms wide to welcome the ‘audience’; namely, Mojo, lying in the road with his nose resting on his paws. Behind the cart, waiting for their entrance, Grinpayne nudges Dea’s shoulder, and she grins._

_“I give you, the one, the only, the new and improved, the amazing travelling wonder of Ursus’ Lotions….. Potions… aaand-“_

Enough.

Grinpayne rises from his seat, his body spurred to movement almost before his mind catches up. He can’t do this. Can’t sit here anymore in the silence, with nothing to distract him from memories so bright they burn.

“Grinpayne?”

Dea is sat on the floor of the cart, back against his bed as she knits what appears to be a scarf but could turn into a sleeve, perhaps, or maybe a hood. She’s stopped mid-stitch at his sudden movement. He'd almost forgotten she was there.

“Bandages” he replies, the excuse out of his mouth before he's even consciously thought of it. “There's a river nearby. I won’t be long.”

She hums an acknowledgement and he moves to the door, squeezing her shoulder as he goes. Her fingers trail his for the briefest moment but he doesn’t linger, restlessness pushing him forward, the walls of the cart suddenly too close, too tight. As he steps outside he’s surprised to see that it’s dusk already; the daylight fading gently like a wave rolling lazily to shore. It's a beautiful evening, the sky stretching itself in a sleepy purple haze across the horizon, but Grinpayne barely sees it. He's almost insulted that the world would dare to be so lovely after a day like today.

At the edge of the road, by the tree line, Ursus is knelt in the grass, trying to convince a reluctant pile of kindling to spark a flame. He looks up at the sound of footsteps, but Grinpayne quickly averts his eyes, setting his jaw and looking straight ahead as he slips into the woods. Ursus says nothing, but Grinpayne feels his eyes on the back of his neck all the same, watching him go.

That's fine. Grinpayne has nothing left to say either.

Resisting the urge to turn and look back, he hunches his shoulders and sticks his hands into his pockets, wending his way deeper into the shadows. The undergrowth slopes gently down away in front of him and he slows, placing his feet more carefully than he usually would, holding onto trees for support, cautious of hidden roots or loose rocks that might cause him to stumble. The last thing he needs is to fall and injure his already aching body. To have to be rescued. Again.

It’s the first time in several weeks that they’ve been outside the city walls, and the quiet is almost unnerving. Back in Oxford, noise had been a constant part of their lives, a swirling babble of voices that only stopped briefly in the early hours of the morning, when the revellers had drunk themselves into a stupor and the market stall holders were still asleep. It’s easy to lose yourself in a city like that, in the noise of the crowd, but here, in the woods, Grinpayne is alone with his thoughts. He moves through the trees like a shadow, listening to the sounds of small animals scurrying away from his footsteps, of the birds that sing warnings of his presence to their friends as he passes beneath their nests. Such background noise is silence compared to the city, though, the sort of silence that allows half-buried thoughts to rise to the surface like air bubbles from the bottom of a swamp.

Grinpayne rubs his eyes. He's been trying not to think about the events of that day, trying to distract himself, but he’s exhausted, and here in the woods there seems to be little point resisting. He takes a deep breath of crisp evening air - cleaner here even just a few miles outside the city - and gives in.

His thoughts turn almost immediately to Ursus, of course. It’s been a long time since he’s seen the man so angry. After he had dragged Grinpayne and Dea out of the main square - a snarling Mojo at their heels keeping the mob at bay - he had rounded on his adoptive son, eyes wild, demanding to know what had happened. What Grinpayne had said or done that had caused the crowd, usually no more than morbidly curious, to turn so unexpectedly violent.

Grinpayne didn’t have the answers. Halfway through a swig of Crimson Lethe to dull the pain blooming across his jaw where a stray fist had caught him, he had almost choked on the unfairness of Ursus’ unexpected vitriol. Even now, hours later, he still feels the sting of it. But when he’d tried to explain what had really happened, he’d found his memories blank, his mind yielding nothing but an addled haze of pain and fists and shouting voices. Everything had happened so fast, he realised, it had all blurred together.

Ursus had been less than impressed. He had exploded with anger, red in the face, shouting at Grinpayne for being so foolish as to let the crowd rile him, to lose his temper so easily. The irony of his words had apparently been lost on him, and Grinpayne, shaken and frightened and hurt, had shouted right back. The situation spiralled rapidly out of control, and the two men were practically nose to nose when Dea, almost in tears of frustration, had shouted at both of them to stop being so foolish about the whole thing and be grateful that it hadn’t turned out any worse. To avoid any awkward questions about the fight in the square they had had to move their cart outside the city walls, which they did in stony silence, and in the hours since Grinpayne and Ursus have been resolutely ignoring each other.

A whispering breeze strokes Grinpayne’s cheek gently, and he shivers, his train of thought derailing and turning down a different track. It’s cool in the shadow of the trees, away from the road and the sunlight, and it’s enough to make him nervous.

It’s only going to get colder. They left the city in a rush without stopping to buy food, so for their next few meals they’ll have to take from the modest supplies that Ursus keeps in the cart. Supplies that, at this time of year, they should be saving, stocking up on, not wasting on unnecessary nights outside the city. If not for Grinpayne and his temper, they'd be eating dinner right now; something hot and cheap bought from a market vendor in exchange for one or two of Ursus' potions in their bright glass bottles. They'd pack up the cart and drive away from the marketplace to a quieter street to spend the night, no need for a fire in the warmth of the city, with Ursus telling them stories by candlelight of glittering faraway lands.

Instead, they’re a few miles outside Oxford, camped on the dusty roadside. Grinpayne thinks of Dea. Does she blame him too? Are she and Ursus, even now, complaining about how much harder he makes life for both of them with his outbursts of temper, with his hideous grin that has seen them turned away from more towns than he’d like to count?

Would they be happier if, instead of returning to the cart, he just just... left?

Grinpayne gives himself a little shake. That’s not a productive line of thinking. He knows in truth that Dea would be beside herself if he didn’t return; after all, no one else understands life the way they do. No one else sees the world as clearly for what it is, understands the pain and darkness that lurk in every corner. He could never leave her.

Recently, she has been trying to encourage Grinpayne to think of something positive when he gets like this, to draw him out of the black moods he finds himself falling into more and more often. He mostly thinks it's pointless, but he's never been able to say no to her, not even when they were tiny children. He ducks under a tree branch, wandering downhill, and tries to bend his thoughts to things that Dea would approve of. Like, for instance, the way that the dappled sunlight playing on the long grasses of the forest floor is beautiful, in a quiet, unassuming sort of way. Summer may be dying but she’s sung a beautiful swansong this year; for the past week they’ve woken every day to bright, clear mornings and gone to bed in sighing lavender twilights, a gentle breeze softening the glare of the sun and not a cloud to be seen in the sky. It’s been so dry that the small water-butt on the back of their wagon is empty, which is why he’s here. His bandages need cleaning, and he knows from previous trips to Oxford that a shallow river runs somewhere through these woods, even if he doesn’t know exactly where.

The lack of rain has given him an excuse to leave the cart. To leave the way Ursus won’t meet his eyes, the way Dea is stoically pretending that nothing’s wrong. To get away from all of it just for a little while. He’s not exactly sure Dea would consider that a positive thought, but at least he’s trying.

Above him, a hazel tree sighs and shifts its branches, letting a sudden fresh beam of sunlight slip through the canopy. It lands so directly in Grinpayne’s eyes that he’s blinded for a moment, and as he raises a hand to shield his face a fresh wave of memory hits him as solidly and unexpectedly as if he had walked into a wall. The smell of fresh paint. The crisp sharpness of a winter evening. Dea’s laugh splitting the air like bells ringing, and the warm, comforting weight of an arm across his shoulders.

Grinpayne frowns. It's a memory that seems to insist on haunting him tonight.

A different, more recent memory surfaces. The anger in Ursus’ face earlier that day, the fury with which he’d grabbed Grinpayne’s shoulders, fingers gripping tight enough to bruise, as though he could shake some sense into him.

Maybe he should have tried.

Grinpayne sighs, rubbing his face above his bandages. He's been walking for a long time and he's exhausted, but just when he decides to give up and turn back, the sound of running water finally reaches his ears. He follows the sound, drifting towards an area of the woods where the light is brighter, and eventually reaches a shallow riverbank edged with rushes and long swaying grasses. He crouches down at the water’s edge, wincing as a dull ache shoots through his side. He’s going to have a nasty bruise there, but that can’t be helped now. At least, thanks to Mojo's timely arrival at the square, he didn't sustain anything worse. He runs a quick glance up and down the bank and then, satisfied that he’s alone, reaches up to untie his bandages. The soft material falls into his palms and he closes his eyes as his scars are exposed to the air, the breeze drifting over his skin like silk. It's a pleasant feeling, and he allows himself a moment to appreciate it before he nudges the scarf he's wearing up over his nose. It’s not as effective as his bandages and it limits his freedom of movement, but it’ll do for now. As nice as the evening air is, exposing his face for too long makes him jittery. He reaches down to the water’s edge and submerges his bandages beneath the surface, the water bitingly cold as it swirls over his fingers, his palms, his wrists. Holding the fabric in the current with one hand, he shakes the other dry and reaches into his pocket, retrieving the small chunk of plain soap that he uses to wash his bandages. His mind drifts as he sets to work, his hands moving automatically through familiar motions he’s done a thousand times before. His eyes have all but glazed over as he daydreams about nothing in particular, gaze following the soap bubbles which float away on the water, when a noise makes him look up. 

He blinks.

There’s a man on the other side of the river.

Grinpayne freezes. He barely even breathes; he may as well be made of stone.

The man hasn't seen him. He's crouched on the opposite bank just a few yards downstream, dressed in a distinctive grey uniform that makes Grinpayne's blood run cold. A soldier. As Grinpayne watches, he leans down, reaching out and messily scooping a few handfuls of water into his mouth. He’s close enough that Grinpayne can see the water droplets glistening in his beard, can hear the creak of his leather breeches, the clink of the metal baton in his belt. Knelt in the rushes and staying as still as he is, Grinpayne knows he isn’t immediately visible, but it’s an incredibly poor hiding place. If the soldier looks up, if Grinpayne moves even slightly, he’ll be seen, and the scarf he’s wearing doesn’t fully cover his scars...

“Parsons!” A voice calls, and Grinpayne watches in horror as a second soldier descends the bank. His hands, still submerged in the icy water, start to go numb.

“No sign of them, then?” The first soldier, Parsons, responds, standing and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The other soldier shakes his head.

“Not yet. We’ve got orders to comb the woods and then move up the road; Anderson thinks they’ll probably stop to camp before long.”

Grinpayne feels his heart hammering in his chest, so loud he’s amazed that they don’t hear it’s pounding beat from across the river. They’re talking about him, they must be. Him and Dea and Ursus. He has to get back to the cart, has to warn them, but because he was idiotic enough not to thoroughly check his surroundings when he stopped he’s trapped here by the river, like a rabbit under the eye of a fox.

Stupid, _stupid_ fool. 

Parsons is nodding, looking thoughtful. “Seems a bit much, don’t it, all this? I mean we’ve all chased a bit of skirt in our time.”

Wait.

Grinpayne hesitates, daring to hope. Maybe they're not looking for him...

“Yeah but not the Judge’s daughter” the second soldier laughs, crouching for a drink from the river himself. “Her daddy’s got nearly as much sway as the Duke; if he says jump, we say how high. And anyway” he adds darkly, “you didn’t see him, the boy that went after her. I’ve never seen a face like that, like something out of a nightmare, like... like every pain you've ever felt, every fear you've ever had, all wrapped up in one man. Apparently the poor girl's practically hysterical and I don't blame her." He shakes his head, and his eyes grow dark. "A monster like that? Who knows what he would’ve done with her if she hadn't got away.”

It’s a lie, Grinpayne realises distantly, as he watches the second soldier slosh water into his mouth and spill half of it down his front. This judge's daughter, whoever she is, has lied about what really happened in the square, has told the authorities that he attacked her, that he tried to... that he...

He's struck by the sudden feeling that he might be sick. 

Parsons shudders. “Gives me the creeps. I don’t wanna think about it.”

“Then don’t think” His friend replies, spitting in the river before standing up and wiping his hands dry on his trousers. He grins wickedly.

“Shouldn’t be too hard for you!”

Parsons barks a bellowing laugh, shoving the other soldier, and the two wrestle for a moment before wandering up the bank, chattering as they go. On the other side of the river, trembling, Grinpayne tries to remember how to breathe.

He waits until their voices fade to nothingness. Then he forces himself to wait a while longer, to count his hammering heartbeats until he is absolutely sure that they're not coming back.

Only then does he turn, scrambling on the grass, and bolt into the woods. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Some things:
> 
> I don't like the canon ages at ALL so in this fic Grinpayne and Dea are only 3 years apart - right now she is 14 and he is 17, but we'll be following them over the course of the next few years. There will be a romance but not until Dea is well over consenting age which won't be for a while.


	2. Beauty and The Beast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grinpayne returns, Dea is too smart for her own good, and Ursus is trying to parent two teenagers with varying degrees of success.

It had all happened so fast.

That was what Grinpayne had told Ursus, stammering and tripping over his words the way he only did when he was truly stressed. They’d had to leave the city so quickly, and Grinpayne had been in such a foul mood after he and Ursus had argued, that Dea hadn’t had a chance to properly speak to him about it yet. 

Because it hadn’t been like that for her at all. For Dea, time had stopped almost entirely. 

Beauty had been just about to bring the Beast back to life when the first shout had split the air, right as Dea tilted her puppet down to press a soft wooden kiss to her beloved. 

“D’you like playing with dolls, freak?”

She’d felt Grinpayne tense up, but they’d been performing for almost three years; they’d been heckled before. They could handle it. Dea had tried to focus on the feel of the puppet in her hand; wood and flesh moving together, _breathing_ together while Grinpayne transformed the Beast into the handsome prince with a flick of his wrist. Usually it was the part in their show that made the audience coo in wonder, and Dea always felt a swell of pride knowing that they were so moved by the puppet that Grinpayne had crafted, by the effect that he’d invented. But, this time, the audience's focus was somewhere else.

“Hey! We’re talking to you!”

“Show us your face!”

Time had given its first shiver then. A ripple of fear had washed over Dea as she sensed Grinpayne start to lose his focus; his thoughts drifting out of her reach even as he knelt next to her on the hard cobbled stone. She had moved to put a steadying hand on his knee, an anchor, a tether to bring him back to her, when several things had happened all at once. 

Grinpayne had flinched backwards like he’d been struck or, she realised later, like he was dodging something. The crowd had shrieked with laughter as dull, wet thuds echoed around the tiny platform they were using as a stage, and as something slimy glanced off her arm Dea realised distantly that something was being thrown at them; rotten fruit by the smell of it, thick and bitter. She'd already had her hand on Grinpayne’s arm to pull him away when something hard had caught her in the side of the head and she’d cried out, fumbling her grasp and slipping sideways. It was a light blow, really, and she’d reacted more in shock than pain. But the damage was done. Before she could do anything, Grinpayne had vanished from under her hand. 

She’d screamed his name, but it was too late. She could do nothing as he launched himself, snarling, at whoever had struck her. And time, with a great, heaving shudder, had fractured entirely.

He was only gone a few moments. Logically, she knows that. She knows that it was mere seconds before Mojo’s fierce howl had cut through the crowd, their shrieks of laughter turning to screams of panic as they scrambled over each other to get away. Dea had stumbled forward without entirely realising it, sobbing Grinpayne’s name into the dark, when an arm had caught her roughly around the waist. White hot terror had seized her and she’d shrieked in fear before she realised that it was Ursus, Ursus out of nowhere, Ursus staggering as he hauled Grinpayne up from the ground by his collar and dragged them both clumsily into a sidestreet.

She had been alone for less than a handful of heartbeats. 

But it had felt like years. 

***

There’s a noise at the door, and she turns her head automatically as Ursus pushes it open, grunting as it sticks for a moment in the doorframe. She can just about make out the blurred shape of his silhouette, framed in the doorway, but only barely. It must be later than she’d thought.

“Did Grinpayne tell you when he was planning on coming back?” He asks gruffly. It's the first time they've spoken in hours. Dea shakes her head.

“He said he wasn’t going far. I don’t think he’ll be long, he’s just washing his-”

“Bandages, I know.” Ursus mutters.

Dea bristles. Maybe it’s just tiredness, just the night pressing its stifling weight against their wagon, but her patience is thinner than usual and Ursus’ mood is testing her.

“He needed some space, Father. You can’t begrudge him that, after everything-.”

He groans, exasperated, before she can finish. “Don’t you start on me too, Dea.” 

“I’m not starting anything!” Dea protests, rising. “It wasn’t his fault, Father, the crowd, they-”

“It doesn’t matter what they did.” He cuts her off, his voice razor-sharp, and she flinches slightly. “Fighting back was reckless and stupid and if Mojo hadn’t got to you you could have both been seriously hurt.”

He shoulders the door open angrily, clearly under the impression that the conversation is over, but Dea’s not done. She scrambles off the bed, and it isn’t until she practically runs into Ursus that she realises he’s frozen in the doorway. 

“What-” she starts, but he shushes her, and her jaw snaps shut with a click. They stand for a moment in silence, listening. 

Nothing. Perhaps the faint whispering of wind in the trees, the crackle of wood in the fire, the distant cry of a fox. Nothing unexpected. 

Ursus relaxes a fraction. 

“Sorry.” He says, half to himself, confused. “I thought I heard-”

But she knows what he had heard, half drowned by the wind, because at that moment she hears it too. A voice cutting through the evening air as surely as a knife. A familiar voice, distant but getting closer, calling out for Ursus.

***

Something is wrong. Grinpayne sounds scared, and he’s breathless, like he’s run back to the cart from some distance. 

“What’s happened?” Ursus wastes no time, moving quickly across the grass towards Grinpayne, all tiredness and irritation from his voice wiped clean away and replaced with a coarse sort of concern.

“Soldiers, by the river” Grinpayne pants, winded, his words all tumbling out in a rush. “We have to leave, we have to go right _now_ -“

“Slow down, child” Ursus interrupts, alarmed, as Grinpayne breaks off coughing, his breath coming in great shuddering gasps.

“It was probably just a routine patrol-”

“No, no, it wasn’t, they were looking for me, I _heard_ them,” Grinpayne says urgently, his voice cracking with misery. “They said that I— th-that a woman, the daughter of some judge in Oxford, she‘s saying that I attacked her, in the square, but I didn’t, Father, I _wouldn’t_ -“

Dea feels something hot and tight taking root in her chest, next to her fluttering heart. That’s not what happened. That’s a lie. 

“They said what?” Ursus breathes, sounding shaken. “Are you _sure_ -"

“That doesn’t make sense,” Dea murmurs, bewildered. Neither of them acknowledge her, each addressing the other in matching low, serious voices, and the heat in her chest grows hotter, almost burning. It scares her. Mojo butts his nose against her palm and she sinks her hands into the scruff of his neck automatically, raising her voice.

“What does that mean? Grinpayne-”

“We can talk later, Dea, get in the cart” Ursus says brusquely, dismissing her and turning to Grinpayne before he can respond. The thing in her chest growls, reaching scalding claws up her throat, choking her. “Grinpayne, put the fire out, quickly, we need to move _-_ ” 

“But I don’t understand-”

“Just get in the cart, girl!” Ursus snaps, and all at once the storm of exhaustion and frustration and fear that has loomed over Dea all day finally breaks, the fireball in her chest rising through her throat and bursting out of her mouth in a scream.

“Tell me what's happening!” 

She never, ever loses her temper like this, and Grinpayne and Ursus freeze in shock, but she‘s too overwhelmed to care. She stumbles towards their voices, pushing Mojo away, horrified to feel hot tears of frustration pricking at her eyes. 

“Why won’t you talk to me, I’m right here! I’m standing _right here_ , I’m not a child anymore, why won’t you just-” 

She breaks off, gasping, as a pair of hands - so cold they might be marble - slip gently into hers.

“Dea.” 

Her name is a drop of honey on Grinpayne’s tongue, sweet and warm, and she chokes back an exhausted sob. He is kneeling in front of her, his frozen hands clutching hers tightly in a silent plea. “You’re right, and I’m so, so sorry, but we have to hurry. I’ll be there in a minute, I’ll explain everything I can, I _promise_. Just please go inside. We don’t have much time.”

The tremor of fear in his voice is so subtle, so slight, that only someone who knew every contour of his speech, every laugh, every groan of pain, would have heard it. To Dea, it is deafening. 

She nods, sniffling, and with a last, hasty squeeze of her hands he’s gone, darting around the campsite to pack up. Mojo is back at her side as soon as Grinpayne leaves, his soft fur a familiar warmth beneath her fingers, and he guides her back the few steps to the cart until she finds the door and climbs inside. Even as it swings shut behind her she can hear the sound of hurried footsteps outside, the petulant cracks of the fire as it is stamped out, the gentle murmur of Grinpayne’s voice as he unties their horse and helps Ursus hitch her to the wagon.

Once inside, she pauses for a moment, taking a breath to steady herself. The familiar smell of the wagon settles in her lungs, and she feels the tightness from her chest ease, just a little. They’ve been nomads for her whole life, chasing the markets where Ursus can sell his potions, never staying in one place for long, but she’s never cared. This little caravan, wherever they are, is all the home she’s ever known, ever needed. Her fingers trail the familiar path she uses to navigate the inside of the wagon - lifting to skim the edge of a shelf; dropping to grip the corner of Ursus’ workbench; jumping a short gap to land in soft, worn blankets - and she flops down heavily on her bed, the wooden supports creaking grumpily beneath her. 

Outside, the tone of Ursus and Grinpayne’s conversation changes, their muffled voices growing louder and more strained. She can’t make out their words clearly, but she doesn’t need to. The timbre and rhythm of another argument brewing is painfully familiar.

A thrill of frustration runs through her. Even before today Grinpayne and Ursus have been fighting a lot recently, over tiny things, stupid things; a look taken the wrong way, a chore left half-finished. Things that used to be settled with a laughing explanation or a single stern word now spiralling out of control until they’re both snarling at each other like dogs in the street. It’s as though they woke up one morning speaking different languages, each suddenly unable to reach the other, but Dea can see how hard they’re trying. How Ursus longs for the affection of his son, how Grinpayne in turn longs for the approval of the only father he knows. She has never needed eyes to see that they love each other, fiercely. She just hopes they learn to see it before they split her heart in two. 

***

After a few minutes she feels the wagon tip as someone climbs aboard, the door juddering open and creaking shut again on stiff, old hinges. Grinpayne’s familiar footsteps stumble slightly as the cart jolts to life beneath him, but he steadies himself after a moment and crosses the floor towards her.

“Where are we going?” She asks immediately, before he can say anything. The bed dips as he sits down next to her, and she feels the blankets shift as he pulls his knees up to his chin.

“I’m not sure. We’ll have to camp for a bit. We just need to get away from the city.”

He sounds exhausted, and she shifts so that she’s sitting beside him, leaning against him as though she can absorb his tension through touch alone.

“We shouldn’t have ignored you, Dea, I’m-”

“It doesn’t matter,” she shushes him, her cheeks colouring with embarrassment at the outburst that feels, already, as if it was days ago. “You can talk to me now.”

He makes a soft noise of assent in the back of his throat, somewhere between a murmur and a sigh, and takes her hand in his, fiddling with her fingers as he describes what he heard at the river. His hands are still freezing, and she tells him so, rubbing his fingers between her palms to warm them after he explains how he hadn’t dared to lift them from the water for fear of being seen. 

Well. At least that explains something. 

Dea frowns, thinking of the nameless, faceless woman whose words have forced them into flight. “Why would someone lie like that? Make that up?”

Grinpayne hesitates. “Father thinks they didn’t. Not that he thinks she’s telling the truth!” he says quickly, as Dea sits up, appalled, “but that she didn’t say anything. That she might not even exist.” 

Dea blinks, mystified, but Grinpayne carries on.

“He thinks it’s a lie from the Duke, an excuse to rally the soldiers into chasing us away from the city, to clean it up by clearing us out.” He pauses, and when he speaks again there’s a tightness to his voice, like he’s trying to force it not to shake. “And now we can’t come back, not for at least a few months. We’ll miss the end of the market. All that trade, all that money gone...” 

Dea murmurs his name reproachfully, knowing well the path that his thoughts are barrelling down, but he shakes his head again and pulls away from her, restless, his voice a coiled spring.

“I’m sorry, Dea. It’s all my fault, all of this—.” 

She sits up and turns so that she’s facing him, snatching his restless hands from the air and holding them tight, like she can squeeze some sense into him. 

“Don’t be a fool, Grinpayne. If Father’s right then the Duke would’ve found an excuse to move us on anyway.” 

“But I should have held my temper, at the square, if they wanted an excuse I gave it to them on a plate-”

“Grinpayne, this isn’t your fault!” She snaps, before forcing herself to take a calming breath. It won’t do for them _both_ to be unreasonable. He falls silent, but sometimes his thoughts are so loud she can feel them in the air. She knows he doesn’t believe her. 

After a moment, Grinpayne reaches over and touches the side of her face gently, just above her temple where she’d been hit earlier.

“How’s your head?” He murmurs, fingers skating over her hair. It’s a blatant change of subject, but Dea lets it slide.

She shrugs. “Fine. I didn’t get hit very hard. How are you?”

Grinpayne shrugs too, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear before pulling away. “Fine. Just some bruises, thanks to Mojo.”

He’s downplaying it, of course. She’d heard him fall, heard his breath cut out as the unmistakable sound of a fist colliding with flesh had cracked through the air. But Grinpayne downplaying pain is nothing new.

“Did Father say anything to you? After I left?” Grinpayne asks suddenly, almost nervously, and Dea frowns. He’s asking something else, really, a second question hidden beneath his words, but she’s not sure what it is. 

“Not really. He stayed outside. I think you both needed some air.”

Grinpayne doesn’t respond immediately, but Dea has known him her whole life. She knows when to wait.

“He's angry with me,” he murmurs, after a moment. He sounds so small, so sad, so _young_ , that suddenly she feels like the older one, like she's lived many more than her 14 years. But she can’t deny what he’s saying. The fury in Ursus’ voice at the square had scared her more than she’d like to admit.

“He loves you,” she says quietly instead. It’s not the same, but she hopes it’s enough.

He sighs heavily, but doesn’t say anything else. They sit in silence, the wagon rocking around them as Ursus drives them through the night, away from the city that had turned so suddenly hostile towards them. 

Grinpayne shifts backwards on the bed, and lets out a small sound of surprise, jostling around as he pulls something out from behind his back. Belatedly, Dea remembers she’d left their puppets on her bed earlier, checking them over after their hasty exit from the city to make sure they weren’t damaged. Grinpayne goes still.

“I was thinking about these earlier,” he says softly. “The day you made their new costumes, do you remember?”

She smiles. “Of course I do.” Her smile turns to a grin as she remembers what had happened later that evening. “You spent all day painting the cart and then Mojo went and rubbed against the bottom of it and got paint all in his fur.”

Grinpayne laughs unexpectedly at that, the sudden, bright laugh that he does when he’s caught off guard. She’s missed it lately.

“I’d forgotten about that part” he says quietly, almost to himself, and she can hear the smile in his voice. 

She grasps hastily for a question, not wanting to let the moment slip away. “Do you remember the first show we ever did? For the people, I mean, not just for Ursus?” 

It’s one of her favourite memories. When they had finished and retreated to the safety of the cart she and Grinpayne, drunk on their own success, had fallen over each other to recount their favourite moments. 

_“Did you hear the-“_

_“The woman with the-“_

_“and then she-”_

_“And then you-“_

_“Yes! Yes!”_

They’d collapsed in fits of giggles, only laughing louder when Ursus had banged on the side of the cart to see what all the fuss was about. 

Grinpayne hesitates, considering. 

“Did we have sweets afterwards?”

Dea grins. “Honey cakes, from the bakery. Ursus used the money we’d earned, said that that made us professional performers, technically.” They’d eaten them slowly that evening in the warm flickering glow of lamplight, eyes slipping shut in delight as they licked the crumbs from their lips, icing melting on their fingertips. She can almost taste it now, the ghost of sugar from years ago. She’s surprised that Grinpayne remembers. He’s usually so terrible with details.

“I was so scared back then,” he says thoughtfully. “I thought it was a terrible idea, that first show, but you were so small and so excited I couldn’t say no to you. It would’ve broken your heart.”

Dea sits up straighter, worried. She hadn't known that. “But you said, afterwards, you said you loved it-“

“I did.” He insists. “I... I do. That first time, it was like... like learning a magic trick. Like hiding in plain sight.”

She feels the movement of his arm against hers as he turns the puppet slowly over in his hands. “Everyone looking at the prince, not at me. Like I was invisible.”

There’s a pause.

“We weren’t invisible today.”

And just like that, she’s lost him. They keep talking as the cart trundles on through the night, but a deep melancholy has settled around Grinpayne as real and as heavy as a physical cloak, and try as she might, Dea cannot lift it. After a while he bids her goodnight and retreats to his own bed, falling asleep quickly, his breathing deepening and evening out, but Dea sits up on her own, waiting. The cart rocks gently around her, a feeling as familiar as the puppets in her hand. She only closes her eyes for a moment. 

***

When she wakes, the cart is still and Ursus is climbing in, moving as quietly as he can in an attempt not to stir his children from their sleep. 

She sits up, and he groans softly. 

“Go to sleep, child, it’s late.”

“Where are we, Father?” She whispers, fighting to shake off the woozy pull of sleep. He sits gently on the edge of her bed, almost exactly where Grinpayne had been not long before. 

“About 15 miles away from Oxford, give or take. We’ll be safe here - I’d be amazed if they followed us this far.”

Dea fiddles with the edge of her blanket. “If they do... will Grinpayne be arrested?”

Ursus’ voice is strained when he answers. “They won’t.”

“But if they-“ 

“Dea, they won’t follow us.“ He whispers firmly.

On the other side of the cart, Grinpayne murmurs quietly in his sleep. Dea has never spent a night more than a metre away from him in her life, so she knows that he either sleeps as still as stone or moves near-constantly. Tonight is a restless night, and he shifts uneasily under his covers, half formed words on his lips. Dea and Ursus freeze guiltily, falling silent for a moment as Grinpayne skims the surface of consciousness, but a moment later he lies still once more, his breath returning to the even rhythm of deep sleep. 

Dea lets out a slow breath of relief, her heart aching.

“He thinks you blame him for what happened in the square.” She murmurs, careful to keep her voice low. “He thinks you’re angry with him.”

Ursus says nothing in response, and Dea narrows her eyes, frowning.

“ _Are_ you angry with him?”

“I don’t...” Ursus trails off, searching carefully for the right words. “I’m angry at myself for letting you two perform somewhere new on your own in the first place. I’m angry at that stupid false allegation, wherever it came from. But I’m… I don’t blame Grinpayne for what happened, no.”

“You shouldn’t have shouted at him.”

Ursus sighs uncomfortably.

“Dea, you don’t… you _can’t_ understand… to see you both like that, all on your own in the crowd and Grinpayne up against so many men… I thought I was going to lose him. Lose both of you. You've never scared me so much in all your lives, the pair of you.”

Dea crosses her arms reproachfully. “You still shouldn’t have shouted. At either of us.”

He doesn’t speak for a moment, and when he does, it’s in a very different voice. He sounds tired. 

He sounds old.

“I know. And I’m sorry. But please, Dea, I... I can’t deal with both of you being angry at me.” 

Then why do I always have to be the rational one, she thinks. Maybe if I stormed off into the woods you'd take me seriously. The fireball in her chest stirs briefly, questioning, but she sighs, relenting, and the feeling dissipates as quickly as if it was never there at all.

“I’m not angry at you. I just… you and Grinpayne fight all the time. I hate it.”

“He’s growing up, my girl. I can’t say I like it, but it’s natural. You'll be the same in a few years, I expect, God help us all.”

Dea shakes her head determinedly. “I won’t. There are fights worth having and fights that are foolish. You and Grinpayne fight over foolish things. You need to talk to each other.”

Ursus shifts on her bed, sighing and reaching over to stroke her hair gently out of her face. His voice is softer than it's been all day.

“You always were the best of us, little bear.”

It’s a childhood nickname, one she hasn’t heard in a while, and instantly the cart feels warmer; danger pressing less closely at the windows.

She shrugs. “Someone has to be the grown-up.”

Ursus chuckles at that, tapping her on the nose in a joking reprimand, and she squirms under the sheets. 

“When did you get so wise, hm? You certainly don’t get your brains from me.” It’s an old joke, one that he has made many times before, and she resists the urge to roll her eyes. She’s about to respond when she becomes suddenly aware that she’s exhausted, a huge yawn overtaking her before she’s able to stop it, and Ursus clicks his tongue.

“Apparently even big brains need rest, eh? Enough chatter now. Back to sleep.”

He tucks the blanket around her as she nestles down into her pillow, leaning down to give her a quick, whiskery kiss on the forehead. But as he gets up, she clutches his sleeve, stopping him from leaving.

“Promise you’ll talk to Grinpayne? Soon?”

Ursus sighs heavily, gently pulling her hand from his sleeve and holding it in both of his before placing it back on the covers. 

“I will, child. I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your lovely comments and kudos on chapter 1! Each one literally makes my heart sing, you have no idea. 
> 
> In other news, Dea is precious and deserves the world. Also apologies to anyone that lives in Oxford - I'm sure you're not all horrible people but I needed somewhere geographically the right distance from the nation's great capitol... Bristol...


	3. Your Broken Children

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grinpayne and Dea have some downtime, and Ursus tries to make things right with his son.

“This one?” 

“Buttercup. Like butter melting in your mouth.”

“That’s cheating!”

Grinpayne laughs at Dea’s scandalised tone, plucking the offending flower from her fingers and winding it into the half-formed crown in his lap. “It’s not cheating if that’s what it’s called! I didn’t name it.”

It’s a balmy afternoon, and they’ve been lying in the grass for an hour or so now, banished from the cart while Ursus tinkers with some potion or other. Neither of them mind; the cart is cosy in winter but stuffy in summer, and out here in the open air a languid sort of ease has fallen over them as they work their way slowly through the pile of wildflowers that Grinpayne brought back from his walk. What Dea  _ does  _ mind, however, is the way that Grinpayne has just wormed his way out of giving her a halfway decent description of the flower she held in her hand. 

“It’s still cheating,” she says in as stern a voice as she can muster, but Grinpayne happily ignores her. He hums something under his breath as his nimble fingers work amongst the stems and petals of her crown, and she can’t stop herself from smiling. With a resigned sigh, she hovers her fingers once more over the flowers, landing on one with petals like crushed tissue paper and holding it up decisively. “This one?”

Grinpayne pauses his humming. “Chicory,” he says after a moment. “Like…” he holds the word thoughtfully on his tongue, and Dea imagines him tilting his head back to the sky as though he’ll find the right metaphor there floating above them. “Like arriving in a new town on a winter morning before anyone else is awake. When everything is so still and cold and quiet that the whole world feels like it’s holding its breath. Like it’s about to tell you a secret it’s never told anyone else.”

His voice is soft and in his words she’s transported; the chill winter air stroking her cheek, the frost crunching softly underfoot, the air tingling with something unknown, something magical. How, Dea thinks, with no small amount of scorn, could anyone ever expect her to long for her eyesight when she can see with all of her senses like this?

They move through the remaining wildflowers, the blossoms growing to life in her very hands as Grinpayne speaks; dandelions ringing with the mischievous shouts of street urchins, daisies bursting with the tangy sweetness of wild strawberries, and a pink flower that Grinpayne can’t name filling her lungs with the feeling of breathless exhilaration. “Like you’ve just run as fast as you can,” he says dreamily, “just for the thrill of it-” 

He inhales sharply, a sound Dea knows too well, and she is instantly alert. “Grinpayne, your medicine-”

“It’s fine.” He says, a little too quickly. “Honestly, Dea, it’s…” he breathes deeply, once, twice, then exhales long and slow. “See? It’s gone. Just a twinge. Look, your crown is finished.”

  
  


Dea frowns, unconvinced, but Grinpayne’s breath doesn’t tremble, and when he nestles the crown amongst her hair his gentle fingers don’t shake, so she elects to believe him. The crown slips down to her ears and she reaches up to adjust it, the stems and stalks that Grinpayne has woven together an intricate pattern beneath her fingertips.

“Princess Dea,” he says, in a voice so pompous and ridiculous that she giggles despite herself. “With this crown of many colours I hereby proclaim you Queen of the Green Cart and All Its Kingdoms. Long may you reign. Hee Hoo Ha!”

He utters the royal cry so seriously that Dea bursts out laughing, covering her hand with her mouth as her shoulders shake, all thoughts of pain slipping happily away. She composes herself with some difficulty, and sits up straighter, tilting her chin to the sky the way she imagines nobles do. 

“And what is your first order as Queen, Your Highness?” Grinpayne asks in his normal voice, though slightly muffled as he bows his head in deference. 

“I should like a palace!” Dea says regally, and Grinpayne makes a contented noise of approval.

“Of course! The most grand in the country! And servants-”

“How many?”

“In their hundreds, Your Highness!” Grinpanye proclaims, and her lips echo the smile in his voice. 

“And feasts!” she adds, adjusting her crown so that it sits more securely on her head. “Grand feasts-”

“Every night,” Grinpayne assures her, “with stuffed geese-”

“And wine-”

“And quails egg tarts-”

“And a whole roasted pig with an apple in its mouth!” Dea finishes, her regal persona falling apart completely as she is overcome with a fresh wave of giggles at the image she only knows from Urus’ fairy stories. She leans against Grinpayne, feeling his own shoulders shake with soft chuckles. But when their laughter tails off into silence, something else settles in its place, something darker. Dea can’t pretend she doesn’t know why they were both so quickly distracted by daydreams of food. It’s been days since they left Oxford, and hunger has become an unwelcome but constant hitchhiker in their little cart, clinging to each of them like a shadow. 

“Father told me I have to go hunting with him today,” Grinpayne says softly after a moment, his thoughts clearly having travelled the same road as Dea’s own. 

Ah. Guilt nips at Dea, and she tries desperately to school her features into neutrality, because the hunting trip is not news to her. In fact, it was she who had cornered a guilty Ursus in their cart that morning while Grinpayne was distracted outside; she who demanded that he make good on his promise to talk things through with his son; she who had suggested they go hunting in the first place. But of course, she’s not about to tell Grinpayne that. 

“See if you can shoot me that wild boar for roasting,” she teases gently, before adjusting to more realistic standards with a wrinkle of her nose. “Or perhaps just a rabbit.”

“Doesn’t take two people to hunt a rabbit,” Grinpayne mutters, the slightest trace of petulance in his voice. Dea frowns, leaning back on her elbows, not daring to lie flat for fear of crushing her newly adorned crown. 

“He wants to talk. That’s a good thing, Grinpayne, it’ll be good for you both.” 

Grinpayne huffs unhappily, flopping down on his back in the grass next to her.

“What if I don’t know what to say?” he murmurs distractedly. “I can’t… I’ve already apologised-”

“Just talk,” Dea says gently. “You both want to fix whatever’s broken. You’ll find the right words.”

Grinpayne hums noncommittally, as though he doesn’t quite believe her. “So” he says after a moment, and Dea recognises from the tone of his voice that the conversation is over, for now. “This palace of yours, my Queen…”

***

Ursus steps outside, squinting in the sunlight after so long spent in relative gloom, a quiver and bow over one shoulder and a second pair held loosely in his hands. From the other side of the cart the gentle sound of voices floats on the breeze, and he trudges towards it, trying to keep the arrows from jangling together too much as he walks. Dea and Grinpayne don’t hear him approach, lying in the grass together and murmuring closely in that private way they do. A wreath of wildflowers is sitting wonkily in Dea’s hair, and Grinpayne is lying on his side next to her, plaiting blades of grass together absentmindedly. They look so relaxed, so calm, so  _ young, _ that Ursus is tempted to sneak back around the cart before he is seen, to leave them to their afternoon and try again tomorrow. But it’s been four long days, and he's a little scared of what Dea will do if he waits much longer.

“Grinpayne.” 

He’d meant to say it softly but it comes out clipped and brusque instead, and Grinpayne and Dea startle slightly at his sudden appearance, looking up with identical sets of wide eyes, one deep brown, one white. Almost immediately, a cloud moves over Grinpayne’s features, the air of calm relaxation that had surrounded him vanishing entirely. Dea also looks uneasy, disappointed at Ursus’ unintentionally stern tone, and he curses himself inwardly but there’s nothing to be done about it now. Wordlessly, he holds out the spare quiver and bow in his hands, trying not to rise to the way Grinpayne rolls his eyes so far back in his head that he seems at risk of losing them entirely. He pushes himself off the floor, muttering something to Dea as he goes, and Ursus bristles slightly. It had sounded far too much like ‘wish me luck’ for his liking, and somehow he doesn’t think Grinpayne is referencing the hunt. As he trudges towards Ursus and silently takes the proffered weapons, Ursus looks past him to Dea, still sitting cross-legged in the grass.

“We won’t be long. Keep Mojo close by and don’t talk to anyone.”

She scoffs a little, and Ursus wonders for a moment whether maybe she’s spending too much time with Grinpayne.

“I  _ know _ , Father,” she says, fiddling with the flowers in her hair. “I’ll be fine.”

Ursus huffs, turning back to Grinpayne who is waiting with his quiver slung across his back, watching him with guarded eyes. “Ready?”

Grinpayne gives one short nod and Ursus hefts his bow, trudging past Grinpayne and leading them both off the road, into the woods beyond. 

***

They’ve been going on hunting trips like this since Grinpayne was barely taller than the bow he's now carrying. In those early years he had driven Ursus to distraction by scampering through the trees and firing ten times more questions at his father than arrows at prey, but as he grew older he became a skilled and responsible hunting partner, and Ursus treasures the memory of those days more than he’d likely admit. Back then they’d walk together for hours in companionable silence, speaking only to point out a half-smudged paw print in the dirt, or a tuft of fur caught on a branch. With most of their time spent in the choking smog and cacophony of towns or cities, the woods became a sort of refuge for both of them. A sanctuary. 

Things are very different now. They walk for a while without speaking, but the silence is heavy and brittle, each of them hyper aware of the movements of the other. Grinpayne walks ahead of Ursus, his shoulders high with tension, his footfalls unusually heavy. A few days ago Ursus would have snapped at him for the careless way he’s placing his feet when he  _ knows  _ Grinpayne knows better - his son can move totally silently when he wants to, slipping through winding streets and woodlands alike with all the noise of a shadow, all the presence of a ghost. But the days since they left Oxford have been long and tense, and, left alone with his thoughts in the dark of the night, Ursus’ anger has given way to a hollow sort of guilt. 

He swallows nervously. He’s never been good with words, and he knows how much is riding on this conversation; knows how urgently he needs to bridge the gap that is growing ever wider between him and his son. The vision of Grinpayne on the ground in the square, hands coming up to protect his head as the furious crowd loomed over him, haunts Ursus nightly. If he’d arrived even a few minutes later… but that’s in the past, and it won’t do to dwell on it. They’ve both made mistakes recently, both been tetchy and short with each other, but Dea is right; it’s foolishness. He can fix this. He  _ has _ to fix this. 

***

He calls Grinpayne’s name, and watches as his shoulders tighten impossibly further, like he’s bracing for an attack. When he speaks, his voice is carefully neutral. 

“I think the track goes this way-”

“Leave the track for a moment,” Ursus says, cutting him off. Grinpayne turns to face him with all the excitement of a man headed for the gallows. 

“Father…” he starts, something almost pleading in his eyes. “I don’t… we don’t have to do this-”

“We have to have it out, my boy,” Ursus says grimly, though he’s fighting the urge to just abandon the whole idea now that he’s faced with actually, well, talking. “I can’t have another day of Dea pestering me-”

“Dea?” Grinpayne echoes incredulously, and Ursus realises his mistake a moment too late as he watches Grinpayne’s eyes widen, betrayal written as clearly across his face as if he’d scrawled the word in ink. He winces; another foot wrong, another mistake to add to his rapidly growing collection. 

“She didn’t mean-” he starts, backpedalling, but Grinpayne cuts across him.

“I knew it, I  _ knew  _ you’d talk about me behind my back.” He mutters bitterly. “At least  _ you  _ tell me how much of a burden I am to my face.”

Well. That’s not fair. That’s not fair at all.

“For God’s sake, boy,” Ursus says frustratedly, “it’s exactly this that’s worrying her! All this constant sniping at each other-”

“And whose fault is that?” Grinpayne scoffs, folding his arms across his chest. It’s a challenge, plain as day, and Ursus subconsciously stands up taller in response, even as his heart thumps uneasily in his chest. This isn’t how this was supposed to go. 

“Both of us!” he replies, struggling to keep his voice level. “The fault lies with  _ both  _ of us-”

“It’s not my fault that you shouting at me upsets her,” Grinpayne interrupts coolly, eyes like tempered steel, and Ursus feels his resolve start to slip. If he can take responsibility for his part in this mess then so can Grinpayne, but instead he’s being childish and moody as usual, and Ursus tells him so. Grinpayne laughs, but it’s a cold, cruel sound; brittle and cutting.

“Oh, of course!  _ Now  _ you’re the reasonable one. When it suits you, when it comes to dear darling  _ Dea _ , then you’re ever so logical.”

He rolls his eyes skyward again in the disrespectful way that has always annoyed Ursus, the way he  _ knows  _ annoys Ursus; the sight like a red scarf to a bull. 

“What’s that supposed to mean-”

“It  _ means _ -” Grinpayne sputters, losing some of his steely composure, “it… it means you act like you’re so calm and collected and I’m, I’m just this wild animal that can’t control himself but-”

“Behave like a wild animal and you’ll be treated like one.” Ursus growls, taking a step forward. He’s distantly aware that he’s fast losing control, that this is the opposite of what Dea wanted, what  _ he  _ wanted, but Grinpayne is being so unreasonable that the frustration flooding through his veins sweeps that thought away like driftwood on the tide. “How could you be so  _ stupid _ , Grinpayne, you could have gotten yourself killed-”

Grinpayne begins to interrupt but Ursus cuts across him with a sharp noise of frustration, holding up a hand. “I should never have let you go on your own.” He snaps. “In fact I’ve half a mind to stop your shows altogether.”

From the way Grinpayne reacts, Ursus couldn’t have made a much worse threat. His eyes widen with horror, mouth dropping open in shock, but he recovers quickly and as he takes a step toward Ursus his features twist into something deeper than fear, something angrier. 

“You can’t do that,” Grinpayne says darkly, though there’s a glimmer of something vulnerable in his eyes, something pleading behind the bravado. “You can’t take that away from us Father, it’s all we have, you can’t _ - _ ”

“If that’s what it takes to keep you safe then so be it!” Ursus says sharply, trying to regain some ground, but Grinpayne ignores him.

“I won’t let you break Dea’s heart like that!” He snarls, nearly shouting with frustration. “I know, alright, I  _ know _ all of this is my fault, I  _ know _ how much easier things would be for you if I just disappeared, but-”

He breaks off as suddenly as if he’d been struck, gasping as a shudder runs through his body, pain snatching his words away. It’s a familiar sight but that doesn’t make it any less painful to witness. Ursus starts forward automatically but Grinpayne staggers away, holding up a trembling hand to ward him off, and he stops short, heart pounding. It’s a moment before he registers what Grinpayne has just said, and when he does his blood runs cold.

“How can you say that?” he bites out, watching as Grinpayne leans on his knees, taking short, shallow breaths as he rides out the wave of pain. “How can you possibly,  _ possibly _ think that I’d want that-”

“Because it’s true” Grinpayne growls, glaring up at Ursus. “It’s like you said, Father, everything that’s happened, everything that’s  _ ever _ happened to us has been because of me, how could you not want me gone-”

“I have  _ never _ said that,” Ursus sputters, choking on a sort of horrified fury. “Don’t you put words in my mouth, don’t you dare say-”

“You’ve never needed to  _ say _ it!” Grinpayne snarls, forcing himself upright with some difficulty and taking an unsteady step towards Ursus. He reaches up to rip his bandages off with something wild in his eyes, something unfathomable, and dread sweeps over Ursus so strongly he almost chokes on it. As Grinpayne’s bandages fall away the dappled sunlight streaming through the canopy highlights every curl and dip of the jagged scar tissue gouged into his face like an awful spotlight, each gash and cut so familiar to Ursus, far too familiar, and he is struck utterly dumb.

“I can  _ see _ it, Father, you can barely even look at me!” Grinpayne chokes, breath ragged, eyes glittering. “Life would have been so much easier for you if Mojo hadn’t found us that night, wouldn’t it?! If you didn’t have to drag this monster around with you? Look at me and tell me I’m wrong!”

Ursus opens and closes his mouth for a moment, rendered speechless. Because that’s it, isn’t it. That’s the wedge that’s been growing between the two of them like a tumour, that’s the knife that has twisted deeper into Ursus’ heart with each year that passes, the truth he has tried to ignore. Because as Grinpayne has grown older, as the puppy fat has melted off him and he’s grown into the tall, lean figure that stands trembling with rage and pain before Ursus now, it’s become so much easier to see who he could have been. The handsome young man he  _ would _ have been, if not for that dreadful night so long ago. In some distant part of his brain Ursus realises, perhaps for the first time, the way that the pain buried so deeply in his heart has been festering; quickening his temper and shortening his patience; poisoning almost every conversation he has with Grinpayne. And as Ursus looks into his eyes, eyes that are searching desperately for reassurance even as they blaze with anger, he is dimly aware that he has a choice. 

Perhaps a stronger, braver man than Ursus would choose differently. But then, a stronger, braver man than Ursus would not have the choice to make at all. He grits his teeth.

“You’re being childish,” He snarls. His heart cracks painfully as he watches a spark in Grinpayne’s eyes flicker and die, but he’s in too deep now, far too deep, and he sees no way out but through. The alternative, of truth, of confession, is too terrible to bear. “Take your medicine.”

“So you admit it?” Grinpayne pants, leaning on unsteady knees for support. 

“I admit that you’re being a petulant, naive fool, yes, and you’re looking for another fight because clearly you didn’t learn your lesson the last time-”

“That has  _ nothing _ to do with-”

“ENOUGH!”

Ursus’ shout echoes through the woods, and Grinpayne flinches back like he’s been slapped. 

“We can never go back to Oxford now, do you understand that?!” Ursus rages, horrified at himself but entirely unable to stop, fear getting lost and muddled somewhere between his heart and his mouth and turning to ruthless fury. “Do you understand what you’ve done, boy, what we’ve lost?!”

“Father-” Grinpayne stammers, but Ursus ignores him. 

“If you hadn’t got into that stupid fight the Duke might have let us stay, hell, if you hadn’t been doing the show at all he might not even have known you were there-”

“ _Father_ -”

“I’ve been such a fool, I should have known, I should never have let you-”

He breaks off suddenly as Grinpayne makes a choked noise of agony, spine bending under the weight of pain as though a giant unseen hand is forcing him down. He doubles over for a moment before his knees buckle and he sinks to the ground in an agonised crouch, reaching one trembling hand to the earth as he desperately searches for a stable centre of gravity to cling to, eyes tight shut, gasping as his own nerves attack him with a cutthroat mercilessness. 

Ursus feels as though a pint of cold water has just been dumped over his head, as though he’s just woken up from a very bad dream. He drops to a crouch besides his son, shame curling in the pit of his stomach as he fumbles for the crimson lethe in his pocket, his anger evaporating.

“Here” he mutters, pressing the little pink bottle into Grinpayne’s hands and ignoring his weak protests. “Drink. Grinpayne,  _ drink _ .”

In too much pain to resist, Grinpayne takes the bottle, tipping his head back and drinking deeply. Ursus watches as he swallows and wipes his mouth with the back of a shaking hand, blinking slowly as his tense muscles begin to loosen. His eyes glaze over for a moment, and Ursus feels a familiar pang of emotion that he dare not name. It is helping him, he tells himself firmly. It is  _ healing _ him. 

However, he doesn’t have long to dwell on it, because at that moment a voice rings out from behind him, a stranger’s voice. All thoughts of Crimson Lethe or sinking ships or even Grinpayne himself are wiped from his mind as he registers the strange accent, and whirls around to meet its owner. 

“Crack the skies…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who could the mysterious stranger be?????
> 
> Thanks to siren-of-the-renown on tumblr for brainstorming the flower crown idea with me, and thanks to all of you for waiting a little longer for this chapter - the next chapter is almost entirely complete so it will be going up in the next few days. 
> 
> Literally every reaction to this makes me so happy - if you have even a single thought about this fic I would love to hear about it (I'm ladytrelaw on tumblr, come and yell in my inbox and make my day!).


	4. To Survive In A Cruel World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our trio are faced with a stranger, a danger, and a choice.

_At that moment a voice rings out from behind him, a stranger’s voice. All thoughts of Crimson Lethe or sinking ships or even Grinpayne himself are wiped from his mind as he registers the strange accent, and whirls around to meet its owner._

_“Crack the skies…”_

Ursus scrambles to his feet almost before his brain has registered the threat. Grinpayne stays on his hands and knees, still disoriented from the crimson lethe and making a groggy noise of questioning at Ursus’ sudden movement, but Ursus ignores him, planting his body between Grinpayne and the stranger who has appeared as if from smoke. He’s probably half Ursus’ age and slightly taller, dressed in a dark shirt and trousers that seem to have been patched several times. A ragged maroon cloth is knotted around his neck in a loose impersonation of a tie, and he’s staring past Ursus at Grinpayne as though transfixed. There’s a look in his eyes that Ursus has never seen anyone direct at Grinpayne before. As though he’s almost… impressed.

“Your face…” he breathes, and Ursus hears a sharp inhale behind him as Grinpayne finally registers that they’re no longer alone. “Incredible-”

“Who are you?” Ursus interrupts tersely, blanching a fraction of a second later what he registers what the man had said. The stranger looks at Ursus as though just remembering he’s there, and smiles widely. 

“They call me Osric! Well, they call me lots of things, but Osric’s the one I like best.” His eyes dart back to Grinpayne, who has forced himself up on unsteady legs behind Ursus.

“Have you always been like that, laddie?” 

It’s absolutely not what Ursus expected him to say, and certainly not in a voice so strangely soft, strangely kind. Nonetheless he feels Grinpayne freeze and duck a little further behind him automatically, the tension rolling off him in waves. He squares his shoulders protectively, glaring at this stranger whose empathy is so unsettling. 

“He was cut as a boy, if you must know.”

Osric raises his eyebrows a little, but nods, taking the hint from Urus’ gruff tone not to press for further details. 

“I was born with mine!” he says cheerfully instead, holding up a hand. Ursus tries not to recoil as he realises it is a shrivelled, deformed thing; three fingers curled over in a permanent claw and the skin twisting around his wrist until it disappears under his shirtsleeve. He shrugs, smiling gently at Grinpayne in a way that makes Ursus’ hackles rise. “I have a friend like you though, she doesn’t speak either and she taught me some-”

“I’m not a mute.” Grinpayne interrupts in a quiet, clipped voice, and Ursus is relieved that he’s lucid enough to be offended. Osric is thrown for only the briefest of moments, barely blinking in surprise before he recovers and holds up both hands, shrunken and normal, in apology. 

“My mistake, lad, no harm meant-”

“Who are you?” Ursus interrupts, watching Osric’s eyes flick up to meet his own. He laughs slightly in confusion. 

“I told you, I’m-”

“No. I mean, who _are_ you? What are you doing here?”

_Why are you being so gentle towards him?_ The unspoken question hangs in the air, borne of almost 15 years of Ursus doing his best to protect the boy behind him from angry words and horrified stares. _Why aren’t you afraid?_

Osric blinks. “I was trying to hunt, although I think there might be a deer 10 miles away that didn’t hear you two havin’ a square go at each other, in case you wanted to scare that one off too.”

He offers a smile that Ursus does not return, and after a moment of heavy silence he answers Ursus’ real question with a strange hesitation. 

“I run a... fair. A travelling show, for people like us.” He gestures at himself and Grinpayne, and it takes a moment for Ursus to understand what he means. When he does, his blood runs cold.

“A freak show?” 

“Well, I don’t like to call it that, but-”

“Stay the hell away from us” Ursus growls, tightening his grip on his bow as his heart rate skyrockets. “We’re armed, if you even think-”

“Woah, woah, woah!” Osric says quickly, taking a step back and holding up his hands in supplication. “What do you think I’m going to do? Stage a kidnap?” He laughs a little nervously, as though the idea is absurd. Ursus doesn’t move.

“Look,” Osric says in an overly level voice, as though he’s trying to calm a wild animal. “I’m not going to pretend I’m not… interested.” He looks at Grinpayne again, addressing him directly, though Ursus notices he keeps his eyes slightly lowered. “I’ve never met anyone like you before, and trust me, that’s saying something. If you wanted to, you’d do well in the fair.”

Behind him, Grinpayne shifts uncomfortably, although Ursus couldn’t begin to guess what he’s thinking. Osric sighs.

“I promise, I just came about the noise, I didn’t mean any harm. Sorry to have startled you. Just, keep it down, alright?” He smiles gently. “I’ve got a lot of wee mouths to feed and they’re not gonna be best pleased if I come back empty handed.”

He inclines his head politely and turns to go, but falters, as though he’s remembered something. 

“By the way, I wouldnae go back to the road for a while. When I left, the Duke’s men were harassing some lassie in another cart. It’s probably for the best if they don’t see you.”

“Lassie?” Ursus questions, the word strange and unfamiliar on his tongue, even as his heart is already sinking because some part of him already knows…

“A girl,” Osric clarifies. “They’d only just got there by the looks of it, still all on their horses. I’d have got involved but besides the fact it’s not worth it on my own, she seemed to be holding her ground. Quite fierce for such a tiny wee thing, and she had this huge dog with her...”

Ursus turns, and Grinpayne’s wide eyes reflect the abject terror already coursing through his veins; a horror so strong it is almost paralysing.

Dea. 

***

The undergrowth is thick and cumbersome, fingers of brambles and thistle snagging Grinpayne’s clothes and pulling him backwards, but he crashes his way through like a creature possessed; faster than he’d run from the soldiers at the river; faster perhaps than he’s ever run before. He can’t catch enough breath, and his heart is pounding a frantic, bruising beat on his ribs, but none of it matters. All he can see is Dea. 

Dea, dragged crying from their cart. Mojo, dear brave Mojo jumping to defend her, and the terrible howl as he lands on a soldier’s sword. Dea in chains, Dea with a noose around her neck, a sword in her heart, Dea, Dea, Dea...

Something bangs against his arm, pulling him backwards and jolting him so violently out of his thoughts that he yelps in shock. He stumbles at the sudden jarring stop and almost crashes to the floor, but the hand that grabbed him yanks him upright and before he can process anything he’s pulled sideways and slammed into a tree. His quiver crushes painfully into his back and he struggles, snarling in fury, but the strange man from the woods - Osric? - cuts him off. 

“You cannae come screaming out of the woods and hurling yourself straight at a Duke, are you mad?!” He’s panting, and it’s making his strange accent even harder for Grinpayne to make out. Behind him, Ursus staggers to a stop, holding up a hand to silence Grinpayne’s protests before he’s even given them breath.

“He’s right, lad, and you know it,” he says, urgency and fear blending together in his voice. “We’re no use to her if they shoot us on sight.”

I’ll kill them, Grinpayne thinks wildly, chest heaving. I’m armed too; if they’ve hurt her, if they’ve so much as touched her, I will kill them even with a thousand arrows in my heart.

But he can’t deny the truth of what Ursus said, and when Osric warily lets go of his arm he resists the urge to sprint towards the road again. The three men move through the woods as fast as they dare, purposefully standing on dead leaves and branches so that their approach is audible, stepping nimbly between the briar patches that are at least growing mercifully thinner as they approach the road. Grinpayne strains his ears, listening for any sign, any signal that might tell him if Dea’s ok, but in the end he sees Ursus react before he hears it himself. Barely there, at the edge of hearing, the low rumble of a wolf growling, and the distinctively high, familiar voice growing clearer with each hurried step. 

***

“-don’t even know what a ‘familiar’ is!”

“Well I don’t care what your kind call them these days, if it comes one step closer then I’m going to-”

“Good evening, my lord!” Osric calls as he steps out of the forest, Grinpayne hot on his heels. His heart gives a sickening lurch as Dea’s pale face turns towards the unexpected voice. She’s standing a little way behind their cart, silver eyes wide, hands sunk deep into the scruff of Mojo’s neck where he’s crouched before her on the dusty road. His teeth are pulled back in a snarl, hackles raised, and Grinpayne is flooded with a fierce affection for the creature that has saved their lives more times than he cares to count. Standing before them on the road are two men: the soldier who gad threatened Mojo standing with his hand on the hilt of a frighteningly large sword, and a large red-cheeked man with a pinched frown sitting astride the fattest horse Grinpayne has ever seen. The second man is dressed far too flamboyantly for the road, in a crushed velvet gown that skims the edges of his calf-length leather boots and sweeps down over the haunches of his steed, a silver wig completing the look as it wobbles precariously atop his head. The Duke.

But not, Grinpayne realises distantly, the Duke of Oxford, who he’d assumed Osric had been referring to. They must have crossed into a new territory without realising it; so eager to put Oxford far behind them that they’d travelled faster and further than usual. Behind the Duke are a further two soldiers, picking like vultures through the contents of the green cart that have been strewn carelessly about the road. There’s something heart-wrenching, something degrading and offensive about the sight of a stranger pawing over their possessions, but Grinpayne ignores them for now, turning his attention back to Dea. She’s not bruised or bleeding as far as he can tell, and she’s holding her chin up fiercely towards the men that she can’t see, her mouth set in a firm line. Still, he knows her well enough to read the things her face isn’t showing; the tension in her shoulders, her tight grip in Mojo’s fur. She’s terrified. He longs to run straight to her, to slip his hand into hers and tell her with a touch that everything will be alright, communicating in silence in the way only they can. But the soldier is still holding his sword half-raised in the direction of Mojo’s snarling fangs, and Grinpayne dare not move until he knows he won’t be seen as a threat. 

He could call out, _should_ call out. Dea must think she is completely alone among strangers and Osric’s voice with its unfamiliar twang will have done nothing to reassure her. But as the Duke and his soldiers turn to see the group of men emerging from the woods, a familiar tightness spreads through Grinpayne’s chest, quickening his breath. He watches their eyes slip quickly from Osric to Ursus before landing on him; familiar expressions of shock and fear and suspicion flying in tandem across their faces as they register his bandages. The shame of cowardice burns in his cheeks as he drops his eyes, and says nothing.

“Can I help you with anything? My wagon’s not blocking your way is it?” Osric continues cheerfully, climbing the last few steps up the grassy bank to the road and pausing a few feet away from the Duke. Grinpayne feels a thrill of frustration at his words, watching as Dea blinks in confusion and surprise as this unfamiliar voice confidently claims all of their worldly possessions as his own. He doesn’t trust this stranger, who appears to be attempting to improvise his way out of a situation that doesn’t even concern him, but it’s too late to backtrack now. 

_"Your_ wagon?” The Duke sniffs pompously, staring down his nose at them from atop his huge white horse. Behind him, the other two soldiers have abandoned the cart and are skulking up to the road, drawing their own swords almost lazily. Sweat drips down the back of Grinpayne’s neck. 

“Well,” Osric laughs, the very picture of relaxation, as though he likes nothing more than to return home to find his cart being raided by armed soldiers, “I suppose technically it belongs to my friend here, but I run the Fair so in a sense, all the wagons we travel with are mine.”

“It’s mine” Ursus offers gruffly, “I’m the druggist.” Across the road, Dea visibly startles at the unexpected familiar voice, and Grinpayne’s pounding heart clenches.

“Wait, wait,” says the Duke, flapping an impatient hand. “What do you mean, what other wagons? What fair? All I can see is this little witch selling potions and voodoo dolls on the roadside.”

Grinpayne forgets how to breathe for a moment, but Osric seems unfazed. 

“Witch?” he scoffs, letting out a barking laugh so sudden that it startles some birds into flight form a nearby tree. “Nae my lord, she’s no witch, she’s a…” he pauses for a fraction of a second, and Grinpayne sees him read and register the lettering on the side of their cart and change tack without missing a beat. “A performer!”

“They’re not dolls, they’re puppets, I _told_ you.” Dea cuts in, folding her arms over her chest and scowling. Fear and pride rush through Grinpayne in equal measure; she’s being so brave, but he wishes she’d stay silent. She might not know the level of danger she’s in, but if they think she’s a witch… 

Osric laughs again, a little more nervously after Dea’s contribution. “Exactly, she’s my best, ah, puppeteer! No sorcery or witchcraft to it, none at all, so if you wouldnae mind lowering your weapons there…?”

The three soldiers shift uneasily, sharing glances, but they don’t sheath their swords. The Duke, however, looks intrigued. 

“What is this fair you speak of?”

Osric grins widely. “The Stokes Croft Fair, m’lord! I’m known as Osric the Freak Wrangler, for what I hope are obvious reasons!” He gestures to Dea, and Grinpayne watches, horrified, as Osric’s shrunken hand sweeps back to include him too. 

“We’re a travelling freak show. The rest of the wagons are just up the road a little way. We stopped to hunt so we left young, eh, Mary here to look after the cart.”

The lord nods thoughtfully. 

“A silly thing to do, that. A creature like this left alone with all of these tonics and that frightful animal, there’s the obvious assumption-“

“I see that now, my lord, an easy mistake to make,” Osric interrupts, bowing graciously. “But I assure you, she’s just a puppeteer.” He pauses, a charming smile spreading over his features, a glint in his eye. “If she was a witch perhaps we’d have had more luck in our hunting!” 

The lord doesn’t laugh, and turns to look at Grinpayne, who drops his gaze to the floor, his heart thumping.

He knows what’s coming, but maybe, if he doesn’t catch his eye-

“And who’s this? Another of your… acts?” 

“Quite right, my lord!” Osric says cheerfully, clapping Grinpayne’s shoulder. He tries not to flinch. “A-”

“Another puppeteer” Ursus steps in, clearing his throat uncomfortably. “My son.”

Grinpayne tries not to focus on the way his heart thumps a little harder at that. 

“We perform Beauty and The Beast together” Dea pipes up, and for a moment the Duke looks at her blankly, clearly having completely forgotten she was there. Then he roars with laughter, his piggy eyes squeezing shut with the exertion of it. 

“Of course you do, of course.” He wheezes, chortling. “So this is yours then, is it, boy?”

Grinpayne looks up, keeping his hands from curling into fists of anger with some difficulty as he sees the Duke holding out puppet of the prince, _his_ puppet. He nods mutely, and the Duke raises an eyebrow.

“And what’s wrong with your face?” 

Grinpayne opens his mouth, but the tightness in his chest has spread to his throat, and he realises with a sluggish panic that the words won’t come. He looks helplessly to Ursus, but it’s Osric who steps in, a flair of showmanship about him. Distantly, Grinpayne wonders if there is some part of him that’s enjoying this.

‘Disfigured as a child, my lord! Of everyone in my fair he’s-”

“Show me.”

Grinpayne feels bile rising in his throat, but Osric has already clamped an arm around his shoulders and is marching him forward, towards the Duke. “Of course, your lordship!”

“No!” Grinpayne mumbles desperately, pulling himself out of Osric’s grip, dimly aware that his fingers are shaking. “No, I don’t-“ 

“I know you don’t want to, ah, spoil the _surprise_ , laddie” Osric cuts him off, a warning glint in his eye as his smile becomes slightly fixed. “But this is the _Duke_ we’re talking about…?”

They’re close enough now to the Duke in question that Grinpayne can smell the sweat rolling off him as he smirks down at them, a scent poorly concealed by cloying wafts of lavender perfume. Grinpayne shoots a glance at Ursus, then at Dea, whose face is pinched with worry. There’s something about the set of her jaw that grounds him though, and he steels himself. She’s barely more than a child, and she’s been so brilliant, so brave. He can be brave too. If this is what keeps her safe, then so be it. 

With trembling fingers he reaches back to the soft fabric nestled in his hair, the knot slipping undone easily under his hands. He turns away from Osric, facing the Duke and the Duke alone, and lets the bandage fall softly into his palms.

The Duke’s reaction is instantaneous. He recoils, then, like any child who has ever tasted something horribly sour, comes back for more, leaning precariously over the neck of his horse for a closer look. “Fascinating,” he breathes, his eyes roving over the jagged nightmare of Grinpayne’s face, taking in each twist of flesh, each bulge of scar tissue. Finally, after what feels like an age, he leans back, looking over Grinpayne’s head to Osric. 

“So the witch and this freak are both part of your fair?”

Grinpayne ignores the familiar jab, taking the opportunity as soon as the Duke’s attention has shifted to tie his mask back over his mouth. His fingers feel oddly numb. Osric, meanwhile, is nodding. 

“Aye, my lord, though, as I said before, she’s not a witch-“

“When you come to Swindon, you will perform in my court.” The Duke says decisively, silencing Osric with a flick of his hand. “My jesters grow boring and tiresome; they need inspiration, something new, something unique.” 

He adjusts his seat, and motions to his soldiers, who sheath their swords reluctantly and slink to the edge of the forest to untie their own horses. 

“I look forward to seeing the rest of your band of monsters, sir.” The Duke says, smiling icily as he inclines his head in what could almost be a respectful nod. “An unexpected pleasure.” 

With that, the Duke takes off at a lumbering trot down the road through some considerable effort from his potbellied steed, his men following behind him. “Of course, your lordship!” Osric shouts cheerfully at their retreating backs, his good hand raised high above his head to wave them off. 

***

Barely have the soldiers moved away from their cart before Grinpayne is rushing to Dea, taking her tiny shoulders in his hands as his voice returns to him in a frightened, garbled flood. 

“Dea! Are you alright? Did they hurt you? Did they-”

“It’s ok, I’m alright, Grinpayne I’m _alright_ ,” she soothes, snatching gently at his hands as he fusses over her, checking everywhere he can see for injuries before pulling her into a hug and closing his eyes, burying his nose in her hair. 

“We shouldn’t have left you.” He murmurs, squeezing her even tighter. “I’m sorry, I’m _so_ sorry, if anything had happened-”

“A blind puppeteer?” Osric says in disbelief, staring bemused from Grinpayne and Dea to Ursus. “You have got to be joking.”

Ursus, ignoring his question, turns on him with a wild gleam in his eyes. 

“What the _hell_ was that?!” He snarls, a crackling thunderstorm of a man. “I told you we want nothing to do with you, and then you go and tell the Duke that we’re part of your fair?!”

“I was trying to help,” Osric counters quickly, raising his hands placatingly but standing his ground. “I didn’t exactly have a lot of time to plan and, by the way, some warning that your daughter was a **_blind puppeteer_** would have been helpful-”

“Who are you?” Dea interrupts, squirming out of Grinpayne’s arms, much to his disapproval. 

“He’s nobody.” Ursus spits, glaring at Osric like he’s something vile that he’s stepped in. “A vulture, someone who preys on people down on their luck.”

Osric’s eyes harden, his gaze growing cold. “If you’re talking about the acts in my fair-“

“Of course I’m talking about your acts!” Ursus explodes, jamming a finger at Osric’s chest. Osric, to his credit, doesn’t back away. “I’ve met men like you before, men who make money from other people’s misery, who parade cripples and broken souls around like you own them! You knew exactly what you were doing when you told the Duke they’d perform for him, you wanted Grinpayne from the second you saw him, well you can’t have him! You can’t have either of them!”

None of them move for a moment, frozen by the tension between the two men who seem moments away from a fist fight. Unconsciously, Grinpayne brings his hands to rest on Dea’s shoulders.

“I promise” Osric says slowly, “I didnae have any sort of grand plan. I couldn’t have known that the Duke would ask them to perform; I just know from experience that people like him prefer it when people like us all stick together in one neat little group. I was right; you saw how he relaxed when I said you were with me.” He pauses, and when he continues there is a steely undercurrent to his voice, something fiercely protective that Grinpayne hadn’t anticipated.

“The ‘freak-wrangler’ thing, it’s an act for the rich, it’s not real. My fair is nothing like that, not on the inside. We’re a family. We look after each other.”

Well,” Ursus says, scoffing, “we already are a family. And we don’t need looking after by the likes of you.” He pushes past the younger man and trudges towards the edge of the road where their horse is grazing quietly by the trees, unperturbed. “Grinpayne, Dea.” 

Grinpayne takes a step towards the cart, understanding the unvoiced instruction, but Osric’s sharp rebuttal stops him in his tracks.

“You can’t leave.” He says, in a voice of barely disguised frustration. “The Duke will be expecting you when we get to Swindon; if you’re not with the fair, he’ll send his men after you. You heard what he said, didn’t you? If I hadn’t covered for you he would have arrested you all for witchcraft.” 

“He won’t bother with us for long.” Ursus says gruffly, trying unsuccessfully to untie the thick rope tethering their horse to the tree. Osric is unimpressed. 

“You already can’t go back to Oxford; that much was clear from your wee domestic in the woods. Do you want to add another city to your list?” He snaps, taking an angry step forward. “He _might_ not send men, if you’re lucky, but word will definitely get around, and you do not want an accusation of witchcraft following you around the country, trust me. Not to mention that the next nearest cities to here are twice as far away as Swindon, and seeing as your hunting trip went so spectacularly well I get the sense you’re not exactly stocked up on supplies!” 

Ursus says nothing, his hands stilling on the rope. Grinpayne, suddenly reminded of the fact that he hasn’t eaten a proper meal since they left Oxford, swallows nervously. 

“Come and stay with us tonight, do one show with us in Swindon, and then you can leave.” Osric continues, his voice softer now. “But I want you to consider that we could really help each other out here. I promise, performing with us, _owning_ the thing that makes them fear you, taking back the control… there’s a power in it. A strength.” 

Something in his words makes Grinpayne feel odd, like something is coming unstitched in his chest and floating away from his body. As Osric continues, Dea’s fingers silently edge towards Grinpayne’s, finding his hand and squeezing it. 

“We don’t have anything like these two in the fair. They’d be a huge draw, and we’d both make more money, plus you get the safety of travelling in numbers. It’s a win win.”

He hesitates, watching Ursus’ back with cautious eyes. 

“I’m not going to force you to join us permanently; no one in the fair is there by anything out of choice, no matter what we tell the customers. But I meant what I said in the woods. You’d do well in the fair.” His eyes flick to Grinpayne, who shifts uncomfortably despite himself, subconsciously edging closer to Dea. “Really well.”

Ursus, having finally untied their horse from the tree, lets out a long, slow exhale.

“I’m not the one you need to ask.” He says eventually, turning to face them with a furrowed brow. 

“Grinpayne, Dea. It’s your performance. What do you think?”

Grinpayne feels his heart clench, surprised at Ursus giving them, giving _him_ the choice. He’s more exhausted than he ever remembers being, and the emotional and physical toll of the past few days is making it difficult to think clearly. The thought of performing their little puppet show for someone like the Duke, as part of a travelling freak show of all things, is frightening. But Dea’s hand is so small and delicate in his, and he worries about her when the summer starts to fade like this, when the freezing wind and the rain threaten to bite. She needs food, real food, not the tough dried meat and watered-down oats that they’ve been rationing for the past few days, and Grinpayne can’t pretend that the thought of a hot meal for himself isn’t tempting.

He taps the back of Dea’s knuckles with his finger; a question. She rubs her thumb gently against the side of his palm in response, her touch feather-light. 

That’s settled, then. 

Grinpayne looks up, meeting Ursus’ gaze and holding it. 

“I want to go with him, Father,” he says softly, and Dea nods her head to show the agreement already silently made with Grinpayne. “It’s only one performance.”

Ursus nods slowly, then sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Alright, my boy. If you’re sure.”

Osric grins. “You just wait till you see how much money you can make from gullible idiots with more riches than sense. Then you’ll change your tune.”

He turns, clapping his hands together before gesturing up the road as if announcing a headline act. “In the meantime, ladies and gentlemen, may I be the first to issue you the warmest invitation to all the glory and madness that is dinner with the Stokes-Croft Fair!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An admission; this is my first long form fic, and I'm still getting used to pacing. This chapter is, I think, where things really kick off, and could almost be the start of the fic (I just couldn't resist some angsty backstory and a look into their lives as younger children). Thank you endlessly to those of you that read/comment/subscribe/message me, this is really just a little personal project and I am so ridiculously happy that it's even slightly resonating with you all! 
> 
> As always, please message me on my tumblr @ladytrelaw if you want to chat!


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